


The Toy Soldier

by BNZG



Series: Make Believe [2]
Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: 1960s, 1970s, Brainwashing, Corpsman, Drug Abuse, Experimental Style, Giant/Tiny, Horror, Macro/Micro, Medic - Freeform, Mind Manipulation, PTSD, Past, Period-Typical Racism, Shrinking, Small Scale Town, Swearing, Tiny Scale, Tragedy, Vietnam War, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21665428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BNZG/pseuds/BNZG
Summary: A man suddenly gains awareness of the truth of his frightening situation.He'll need to hide said awareness if he wants any hope to escape it.The second installment of the Make Believe series.
Series: Make Believe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561915
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	1. Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While not necessary, it is highly recommended that you read my story Child's Play for better understanding of what is going on.

_**September 14, 1977**_  
  
Mason was truly content.   
  
Even as he reread _Doctor Zhivago_ for probably the fifth or sixth time, the seams of the book beginning to show small white tears from use, he felt an ease that came along with the routine of enjoying the peace and quiet of his small office in his home early in the morning. Of course, he could have read at any time during the day, as his duty was seldom needed in such a small town for a gathering of people that didn't even reach fifty in number.   
  
Technically, calling it a town was more of a misnomer when he thought about it. In many ways, it was a mere hamlet more than anything in terms of population and size, but it still had more amenities than most places of such a small size.   
  
Nonetheless, as an introvert, Mason preferred the solitude of his own home. His neighbors were an amicable lot, so much so that conflict was essentially nonexistent. The most heated he ever witnessed any act were when Vernon lost a game of backgammon to a young Derrick, the old codger going on and on about how the boy must've cheated to ruin his almost forty-win streak. The only thing that came of it was a hearty laugh from three-man elderly crowd and Derrick receiving more challenges from the sixty-four year old.   
  
Unfortunately, Mason hadn't been there to witness it, having tended to the newlywed Goucher's newborn at the time; the blond woman had been hysterical about the prospect of her ten-week son contracting whooping cough, when it had thankfully been a mild treatable allergy to pollen. But he had witnessed the aftermath when he'd walked back to his home to see the strapping young lad grinning ear to ear and the old man remaining firmly seated at the table of his outdoor patio of his porch, backtracking the moves on the board to see what went wrong, in passing.   
  
It had been the next day when he had caught the context of it all, with Derrick proudly proclaiming his victory after the afternoon call. He couldn't help but wish he had witnessed it firsthand.   
  
He was brought out of his merry thoughts when he heard a knock at the door. He stopped at page ninety-three, thumbing the corner to mark his progress and put the book back into the bookshelf in his wall. He had a good idea who it might have been at the door, as she had always seemed to have something going on with either of her twin boys or her husband. A sprained ankle, injured knee, or a dislocated arm...the boys in her family seemed to be heavily prone to injury he noticed. She was the least cumbersome of the bunch, the only time she personally came to see him was when her water had suddenly broke with her two children and the town nursemaid, the kindly Angela Burnham, had been too sick to even move out of bed.   
  
He walked towards the front door of his home, expecting to see Mrs. Deborah Langley at the door with one of her ten-year-old sons or her carpenter husband by her side, and began speaking as he opened it. "Good morning Mrs. Langley, I'm guessing Jeremy must've— _oh!"_  
  
He was surprised that his intuition had been proven wrong when instead of seeing the short, portly woman accompanied with one of the males of her family, the middle-aged willowy Elicia Herrmann stood in front of him, wringing her hands together and looking quite distraught.   
  
"How do you do, Dr. Wickett," she greeted in gentle haste, nodding fervently. Her southern-lilt accent was tinged with urgency. "I apologize for my suddenness, but I need your help."   
  
Mason immediately picked up on the woman's nervous behavior, her anxiety beginning to rub a bit onto him. Still, his bedside manner overtook his rising dread, hiding his trepidation of what the woman was about to tell him.   
  
"What's wrong? Is it an emergency?" he asked, stepping to the side to allow the woman passage into his home. She politely declined entry with a shake of her head, her chestnut brown curls bouncing with the movement.   
  
Rooted in her spot, she answered him in a hushed tone. "I...I believe so, doctor. I mean, it looks to be quite urgent and...well, I'm not the best judge of these kinds of things and don't want it to become something much worse but if it's really bad I think we should get a wiggle on it now before...well..."   
  
Mrs. Herrmann was taking far too long to get to the point, a terrible habit of hers that he noticed when she had introduced himself to her. Mason gave her a sympathetic nod but gently urged the woman to explain. "Mrs. Herrmann, I need you to tell me what's wrong so I can grab the tools I need and get a move on. By any chance, is it Joseph?"   
  
Joseph was Herrmann's one and only son, and having lost her husband to leukemia about two years ago, she fretted over her teenager's wellbeing more than ever. Having watched the once jolly and witty man slowly wither away in her home had left the woman in a constant state of melancholy and distressed, and his passing had increased the woman's naturally nervous spirit tenfold. Even Mason had lost ample amounts of sleep in worry and dread, knowing there wasn't much he could do for the ailing man. It wasn't too much of a shock to witness her transition from a more hands-off parental figure to a mother hen that felt the need to know about her son's health, activities and whereabouts at all times.   
  
He was somewhat relieved when the woman shook her head, her voice a bit more clear when she spoke. "N-No, it isn't Joseph. He's fine. It's Harold. He had an incident cutting my son's hair. Slice his arm clean open, and there's blood everywhere!"   
  
Inwardly, Mason felt a palpable release of tension disperse out of him. From the way Mrs. Herrmann had acted at the door, he had assumed the worst. Granted, he hadn't seen the wound yet and there was also the chance that it may have been just as bad as she made it out to be, but he had dealt with his share of deep cuts and lacerations over the years, so it seemed to be in the ballpark of his expertise lest his assumptions proved facile.   
  
"Alright. I'll grab some stitches and peroxide. You can head on back and tell Harold I'll be there momentarily."   
  
The woman briefly shook her head and ran back to her neighbor's home, shouting her thanks to him as he went into the backroom where his medical supplies were. He grabbed his old case and checked for all necessary materials and tools, from several sheets of white gauze to the pair of sutures. After stashing a roll of medical tape into the compartment of his case, he closed it before swiftly making his way out of his door and across the wide courtyard that was rather barren for the time being, most likely to become much livelier within the later morning hours.   
  
All the houses were the same in terms of size and structure: two stories tall with either a cobblestone or clay exterior, with four windows on the bottom floor and larger rose windows on the top. What made Harold's home stand out the most, on the other hand, was the large apple tree he planted in the front of his yard. Mason had been shocked that the Watcher had permitted him to grow it away from the allotted area for fruits, as all food had been routinely provided to them. It might be because the Watcher had enjoyed the supple apple pies he made in his free time, with enough servings to go around the entire community. Nonetheless, it was that tree that made Harold's house stand out the most despite it being sandwiched between similar models that would've made it a backdrop anywhere else.   
  
Mason stepped onto the patio and rapped his knuckles against the door. After a few scant seconds, the door opened to reveal a distraught Joseph, his haircut unfinished and left in a rather humorous asymmetrical fashion that under normal circumstances, Mason would have chuckled.   
  
_"Ah!_ Dr. Wickett!" Joseph moved back and out of the door frame to allow the middle-aged man to enter without delay. "You're very fast. He's in the kitchen now. Ma's wiping the blood off the floor."   
  
Mason gave a polite nod to the younger man as he passed by him. "Sound's like you had a _devil_ of a time getting that trim, eh Joseph?"   
  
Joseph let out a hummed chuckle behind him. "I guess you could say that."   
  
The doctor immediately saw the sinewy barber upon entering the kitchen. He was leaning against the cabinets, clutching his injured arm with his other one, a long cut etched across his forearm with dark blood oozing down the rather nasty-looking cut. While fairly bad in terms of appearance, he had most certainly seen worse. Still, it begged the question...   
  
"Now, how in the world did you get _that,_ Mr. Johnson?" Mason asked with a wince once he got close enough to see the wound, "I'm pretty sure Joseph's hair wasn't made out of razor blades, last I checked."   
  
The taller man seemed to look up from his bleeding arm to make eye-contact with the doctor who had finally arrived. He smiled amiably at the dark skinned man before speaking. "Morning doctor! Haven't seen you outside bright and early in a very long time!" He looked back at his arm and let out a bated sigh that evolved in a short bout of laughter. "Nah, the Herrmann's boy got sharp hair, but it ain't _that_ sharp." The lean man looked up to the top of the cabinets, mouth pinching into a frown. "I made a fool of myself a bit. Put my good scissors and knife at the top of the cabinet, and wouldn't you know it, it fell right on me and sliced my arm across like butter. Forgot I had the cutters facing my direction."   
  
Mason shook his head as he set his case on the table. "The misses won't be too pleased to hear about that."   
  
Mrs. Herrmann, who had been washing the bloody rags in an old basin in the small washroom in the back, spoke out. "That's what I said. Probably why he didn't want me pulling her out of the morning tea gathering with Mrs. Langley and Felicity. She'll have a conniption when she sees you all wrapped up though."   
  
Mr. Johnson scoffed, turning his neck around. "Oh please, you know how Dahlia is. She'll put two and two together and chew me to bits once she knows how I got this smarted by a small pair of scissors. I can see it now, her going on and on about how I should've moved the scissors to a lower shelf or somewhere else."   
  
"And you should've _listened,"_ Mason said pointedly, twisting in the numeric code for the combination lock in place to open it, pushing the upper section carrying his personal bottle of ginkgo biloba and band-aids out the way before pulling out the materials and stacking them on the table. "'Cause trust me, you're about to feel the aftereffects once I dress it up. You're lucky it's just a cut, Harold. An inch or more and you could've have permanent scarring across your face. Mrs. Herrmann, can you stretch out the tablecloth while I get the needle ready?"   
  
The lone woman did so without a word, watching as the doctor counted and assessed what was needed to address the deep laceration on Harold's arm.   
  
After taking stock of all the required materials and threading the needle in for suturing, he gestured for the barber to take a seat across from him and had him prop his arm up on the table. "Alright let me take a look at it  
  
Up close, the wound looked slightly worse than he thought, and he suppressed a wince at seeing it up close. There was no doubt that the needle and thread would be needed to fix it. He surmised it would take several weeks for him for a deep cut like this to heal, most likely to become a permanent scar.   
  
"Pretty," Mason said offhandedly as he went to pull on a pair of gloves before grabbing the small canister of peroxide. He applied some to a clean cloth and grabbed Harold's wrist, holding him in place. "At least I know you're a brave boy, aren't you?"   
  
Harold rolled his eyes in a jocular fashion. "Yes, _mother._ I'm the _bravest_ of boys." With a laugh, Mr. Johnson replied, "Don't worry, I've gotten shiners, chips and dents all over my body before, you know. But don't be shocked if I recoil a bit, so I suggest you get a tighter grip, doc."   
  
"Duly noted," Mason said as he readied the peroxide into a small measuring cup with one hand.   
  
Mrs. Herrmann seemed to have finished rinsing the rags and left them to dry on the edges of a laundry basket situated near the corridor of the kitchen area. She neared the pair of men and watched with anticipation. "You talk a good talk, but you were hollering like a three-year-old banshee when I heard you next door."   
  
"Out of _surprise,_ mind you." The strongman's blushing gave away his embarrassment immediately to the woman, "But trust me, the pain ain't anything really. Just an annoying little itch if I ignore it."   
  
Mrs. Herrmann let out a curt laugh. "Really? Could've fooled me."   
  
"Alright. Brace yourself, Mr. Johnson," Mason intervened as he tightened his grip on the thick wrist in his hand. "You want a countdown?"   
  
Mr. Johnson was silent for a moment before shaking his head. "Nah, don't need one. Do it, doc."   
  
With a shrug, Mason complied.   
  
Unfortunately, Mr. Johnson proved to be less resilient than he had let on. The moment the peroxide went into the wound, the larger man involuntarily jumped up from his chair with a sharp hiss and twisted his arm out of the doctor's hand with a strong jerk. A cry from Mrs. Herrmann sounded just as the large man accidentally jarred the table with his leg, knocking down several of the tools onto the wooden floor and spilling the still open canister of peroxide.   
  
Something wet hit Mason's cheek as he stumbled in his chair, barely managing to catch himself on the table before he fell onto the floor. He let out a shocked gasp as he slowly leaned back up in his chair, taking a moment to recover from the brief scare.   
  
A pale hand placed itself on his right shoulder, making him look up to the concerned visage of Mrs. Herrmann. "Are you alright, Dr. Wickett?"   
  
"Y-Yeah," the doctor responded with a small stutter. He let out long breath before fully straightened in his seat. "Don't worry, I guess Mr. Johnson reacted a bit more strongly than I thought. Guess I should be doing more push-ups and sit-ups before I'm called to this house again."   
  
"I'm truly sorry, doc. Guess I'm just not as big of a tough guy when it comes to stinging sensations." Mr. Johnson sat back in the chair, nursing the wound with his free hand as the wound oxidized in a small stream of bubble foam. He twitched in his seat as his eyes remained glued to the cut, no doubt disturbed by the process.   
  
"Quite alright, Mr. Johnson. You're hardly the first, but you're _definitely_ the strongest."   
  
Mrs. Herrmann's eyes squinted a bit in the doctor's direction, particularly his face. It was as though she had spotted an abnormal growth or stripes growing on his skin.   
  
Mason immediately picked up on the disgusted expression on his face. "What's wrong?"   
  
"With all that flailing about, he got a whole glob of his blood on your _face!"_ Mrs. Herrmann snarled, turning to Mr. Johnson. "Harold, you gotta get a better grip on yourself! Can't be jumping and moving about when the doc's trying to help you!"   
  
"Hey, I didn't mean to do it! I was just caught off guard was all!" Harold shot back, his face now fully read with humiliation. "It was an-um...what do they call it—an _knee-jerk_ reaction!"   
  
"I'll say...you made a mess on your floor! We'd have to watch for the Watcher to get more materials for him, y'know."   
  
"Once I explain myself, I'm pretty sure he'll understand what happened when I explain it to him."   
  
Mason didn't really pay attention to the banter between his patient and neighbor. His mind was mainly focused on the words of Mrs. Herrmann, which brought attention to the sensation of something dripping down the side of his head and to his cheek.   
  
_"Blood on my face?"_   
  
Languidly, he raised a hand towards his cheek, two fingers feeling liquid that began to dribble down into the crooks between them, before bringing it to his eyes.   
  
It was Mr. Johnson's blood, definitely from when he was swinging his arm around after the application of peroxide. Dark and red as it trickled down his index and middle fingers and towards his palm.   
  
For some odd reason, Mason couldn't stop staring.   
  
A ping of fear propped up in his heart.   
  
He was a doctor. He was no stranger to the sight of blood. It was standard practice to have, or at least build up, some level of resilience to seeing copious amounts of blood from injuries that were even considered grievous. He had seen and dealt with blood spurts and spills that would make the Average Joe become nauseous. A speckle of blood from a wound that wasn't considered life-threatening should have not having him feel so afraid all the sudden.   
  
There was something so startling familiar about seeing it for some reason like this. So close to his eyes.   
  
It was...   
  
The speckle of blood began to suddenly increase before his very eyes, spider-webbing itself down his hand and wrist, coating the sleeves until it was saturated in dark red.   
  
There was the scent of smoke and gunpowder assaulted his nose.   
  
There were embers and charred bodies at his feet. A man dressed in green fatigues missing his lower jaw a strewn across the field of mildew like a discarded doll caught in a house fire. Another one with a hole through his neck, blood pooling around the ground beneath him, absorbing into the soil. A third dead man, older and dressed in a simple shirt and a rolled up romper, lay across the wall of a dilapidated hut with a collapsed thatch roof continued to burn away into oblivion. A splash of blood marked behind his lolled head which hung to the side at an unnatural angle, a hole filled with blood and brain matter oozed down the front of his face all the way down to his lap.   
  
He couldn't breathe.   
  
_-er?  
  
_There was a gun in his hand. Smoking.   
  
Silver bullet shells littered the ground, shining under the fire's light of a smoldering world. His hands were gripping it so tightly that his dirty knuckles and palms turned pink. His lifeline.   
  
That had only been a child.   
  
He couldn't breathe.   
  
_-ter?  
  
_It was so hot. It was so damn hot and humid. It was like he was on fire. Even the tree canopies did nothing for him.  
  
Sweat dripped down his forehead. The silhouettes didn't move. They wouldn't move until _he_ moved. Until someone on his side made a movie.   
  
They were watching.   
  
Waiting.   
  
His throat was closing.  
  
He couldn't breathe.   
  
He couldn't breathe.   
  
He couldn't—   
  
"Doctor?"  
  
Mason blinked.   
  
Both Mr. Johnson and Mrs. Herrmann were in front of him, sharing the same look of worry and surprise.   
  
He'd been gasping. It was only once he was able to get his breath that he realized he was back to where he was.   
  
The village was gone. The trees were gone. The bodies were gone.   
  
He looked back at the blood at his gloved fingertips.   
  
It was just a smidgen of blood, nothing more than tiny forgettable splatter.   
  
But his hands were shaking, and he was still feeling the spike of dread that came from nowhere. All though he was back in Mr. Johnson's house, the images that had taken siege of his senses lingered faintly within him.   
  
"Doctor Wickett, are you alright?" Mrs. Herrmann asked, her voice filled with concern.   
  
He remained silent and blinked once more. Mr. Johnson and Mrs. Herrmann were still there.   
  
It had all been in his mind's eye. A hallucination. A figment of an overreactive imagination.  
  
But it had felt so horrifically real.   
  
He found it difficult to speak. It was as though his throat was constricted despite the fact that he was just as healthy as he was before. It took a few seconds before he could work his shivering jaw to actually form words. "U-um...Y-Yes. I-I'm fine."   
  
His answer sounded unconvincing, even him him. He gave the two an inadvertently unsettled smile. "Yeah, just had a bit of a spell is all. I'm quite fine. Really. I just...it might have been a bug."   
  
Mr. Johnson leaned forward with a frown. "Are you sure, doctor? I hope I didn't make you hit your head on something/"   
  
Mason waved a hand, gripping his temples with his non-bloodied hand. "No, no! Trust me, you didn't harm me at all. I-I-It was just me."   
  
Mrs. Herrmann bustled by Mr. Johnson and placed a gentle hand against his forehead. Mason flinched back, startled by the movement. The woman retracted her hand immediately after witnessing his reaction, eyes wide with shock. "A-Are you sure you're not coming down with a bug, doctor? I mean, it is possible that there my be a flare up, you know."   
  
As innocuous as the question was, for some odd reason, it took a while for him to process what the woman was saying. She was speaking perfect English, yet it didn't seem to make sense to him.   
  
Maybe he _was_ sick. Somewhere. He wasn't in the right state of mind right now. Having a sudden panic attack filled with macabre illusions in the middle of tending to a patient.   
  
Something wasn't right.   
  
It was quiet for several seconds before Mr. Johnson broke the silence. He looked fidgety, his usually large body looking as though it was curled in on itself as he tried to make himself appear smaller as he reached for an unused rag that managed to still remain on the table after knocking down everything else. "Say, uh...look doc," the larger man said tentatively as he passed the clean rag to Mason to wipe his face and hands with, "You already kinda cleaned the wound, and uh...I'm pretty sure that Angela might know a thing or two about stitching. Pretty sure she isn't busy right now. I'll have her sew this thing up and you can go get some rest. I...I think you really need it."   
  
Mason did say anything immediately, busy wiping his face with the cloth before folding it onto the table before letting out a guttural sigh. "No, it's fine. I can finish it up. Can't be bothering anybody else to do what's supposed to be my job. It'd become a hassle."   
  
Mr. Johnson's face was unreadable for a moment before his eyes became narrowed in solemn concern. "Doc...I'm afraid you're in no condition to be tending to me when your fingers are shaking like the dickens right now."   
  
Mason's eyes squinted in bemusement before he looked down to his hands.   
  
Just as his patient had said, they were trembling violently. So much so that the measuring cup he was holding was rattling in his death grip, the tiny remaining amount of liquid inside swishing side to side creating a tiny bit of foam. Even as he tried to will them to stop, they continued to shiver unheeded to his wishes.   
  
He swallowed dryly. He wouldn't be able to so much as hold the needle straight, let alone be able to safely suture a wound without botching the job and doing more harm than good.   
  
The hot flashes died down to a chills that threatened to wrack his body, and he found that he had to once again put considerable effort into maintaining face.   
  
"I-I deeply apologize Mr. Johnson," Mason said slowly, trying to smile at the man but innately aware that it came off as unconvincing to either observer. "I don't know what came over me. Got the chills all the sudden...maybe I _should_ leave this to Mrs. Burnham. If you don't mind..."   
  
"Not at all, doc." Mr. Johnson interjected, raising his uninjured arm up in a wave. "Can't have you of all people getting sick on all us."   
  
Mrs. Herrmann took the bloodied rag from the table and gestured to the door. "Get some rest doctor. I'll probably send my son to check up on you in a bit." Upon mentioning the fourth person in the house, who seemed remained quiet throughout the whole ordeal, her lips thinned as she strode to the corridor and looked down both halls, Speaking of which, where is he?" Cupping her hands, she called out for her son, "Joseph?"   
  
The front door opened and the teenager with the half-finished hair stepped in. He was rubbing the back of his neck when he appeared at the opening of the kitchen. "Right here, Ma. You know I am with blood and needles. Had to step out so..."   
  
He paused when he saw the shaken Mason sitting in his seat and Mr. Johnson still holding a hand to a still open wound. His eyes swiveled to both men at the table, startled and nervous. He didn't expect such tension in the room when he came back inside, especially with the sight of the uncommonly perturbed doctor twiddling his thumbs together. He leaned down to his mother's level and asked, "Is everything alright?"   
  
"Nevermind that," Mrs. Herrmann said, gesturing him back towards the door. "I need you to do me two favors. Escort Dr. Wickett back to his home and knock on Angela's door. Explain the situation to her and bring her over. She'll have to do the stitch job."   
  
"It's alright! Joseph doesn't need to walk me home!" Mason said hurriedly, forcing himself to relax as best he could. He still felt strangely high-strung and frightened, but the idea of being walked home, no matter how well-intended it was, made him feel ashamed for himself. Inadequate. It was an irrational thought, as both from a human and a professional standpoint, it made absolutely no sense to turn away company that desired to aid him when he felt more vulnerable than he ever did.   
  
He couldn't recall ever experiencing such a feeling before, oddly enough. And yet, it felt somewhat familiar, as though it wasn't the first time he felt that way. As if it was natural for him.   
  
Mrs. Herrmann looked at the doctor sitting down with a doubtful expression, the thin fingers of her small hands threading into one another. "...Are you _sure,_ doctor?"   
  
Mason nodded, pushing himself to his feet. "Positive. I do appreciate the concern though, ma'am. I'll be fine."   
  
The feeble woman didn't look as though she believed him, but she didn't press the issue, seeming to realize that the doctor didn't really want to argue. "Alright. I'll come check on you a bit later, okay? If you need me to whip up some soup, just say the word and you'll have a nice warm bowl right outside your doorstep."   
  
Mason, despite anxiety still maintaining a tight grip on him, manged to give her a genuine smile, touched by her concern. "You are too kind, Mrs. Herrmann. Pardon me, both of you. I'll probably be back out and about when the Watcher's doing his rounds."   
  
"If not, don't worry," Mr. Johnson said, pointing to his arm. "If you need someone to vouch for you, I'll be the man to do the job."   
  
"Greatly appreciate it, Mr. Johnson. Once you get that arm sewed and bandaged up, make sure you drink a lot of water and take it easy for the day. No more sharp objects on the high shelf where you can't see them."   
  
Mr. Johnson's jovial laugh filled the kitchen as Mason turned to leave. Mason heard the man declare, "Trust me, I'm going to get an earful the moment Dahlia gets home!"   
  
A new conversation began between Mrs. Herrmann, Mr. Johnson, and Joseph, more than likely catching the lad up to speed on what was going on, as Mason made it to the front door, his back to the group in the kitchen.   
  
It took several tries for his trembling hands to steady enough for him to grip the knob and open it.   
  


\-----

  
The weather was as temperate as always, yet he felt cold.   
  
It was peculiar. At first he felt hot, as though he was slogging through a jungle.   
  
Now, it was as though it was winter, and despite his best efforts, he couldn't stop shaking.   
  
Mason instinctively knew wasn't experiencing any sort of viral malady of the likes of a cold or flu. He wasn't anemic, as long as he knew, and last he checked he didn't suffer from any previous symptoms of psychosis or delirium before he entered Mr. Johnson's house.   
  
Yet, those images had seemed so frighteningly vivid that they had them in an invisible snare that couldn't be shaken off.   
  
A couple years ago, Gerald Heartfield, the oldest elder in the community and previously the most perceptive before his mind began to degenerate into advanced senility, had described Mason as being like a rock: strong, unfazeable and unmovable. While Mason was modest, he found the analogy complimentary yet true to some extent. Mason didn't show extreme emotions of either joy or sorrow outwardly.He was usually pretty mellow, taking everything, both the good and the bad, in stride. It wasn't that he actively suppressed his feelings, it just had never reached a high that he'd display them in full openness.   
  
But right now, as he hastily made his way back to his home, he had to truly fight to hide his inexplicably irrational _fear_ from others.   
  
His peripheral vision was tunneling, warping. The world was blurring and darkening on the sides. The only thing clear being his home situated at the other end of the gathering of houses.   
  
It was only a three minute walk at most. Yet, why did it seem farther than it should have been?   
  
Farther...farther...   
  
He bumped into something, letting out a small, "oof!"   
  
He swung around, abnormally agitated, before his arms went slack.   
  
He was staring down at a tan-skinned older woman, who looked at him with narrowed eyes and a sneer, clearly annoyed.   
  
"Yancy," Mason breathed out. He didn't know why he said the woman's name instead of apologize for rudely running into her in his desperation to get inside his own home. Maybe because he was finally catching up to the present. He obviously hadn't seen her, with how hyperfocused his vision had been a split second ago and the fact that the woman barely even reached his shoulders, if that.   
  
The aforementioned woman scowled and kirked her head to the side, "How 'bout you actually show some damn manners when bumping into ol' ladies and start watchin' where you're goin'? You're ass would be patching _mine's_ up because you can't seem to notice anybody when it seems like you're on Cadillac all the sudden."   
  
Mason didn't know what to say. He didn't really know much about Yancy. Nobody seemed to actually, not even her last name. She seemed to go out of her way to separate herself from her neighbors and anyone curious enough, sometimes barely out to the meeting, even at the behest of the Watcher until someone personally forced her out, kicking and screaming the whole way through. She was crass during the town talks and dismissive of everyone else. In a way, she really didn't seem to belong among his peers who were all fairly sociable and polite with one another. For all intents and purposes, she made herself the anomaly. While no one really saw her as their enemy, no one saw her as their friend either.   
  
After Mason remained silent for several seconds, Yancy snarled at him. "What!? Cat got your tongue or somethin'? You can't even apologize when you're _clearly_ the one in the wrong?"   
  
Mason had to clear his throat. Despite his frazzled nerves, the last thing he wanted to do was make a rude impression on the elderly woman in front of him when she obviously was expecting him to answer her. "Ms. Yancy, I apologize. I was in such a hurry and—"   
  
"Hold up," Yancy interjected, her expression uncharacteristically softening once she noticed Mason's troubled demeanor, "I've never seen anybody 'round hear have that kind of expression before." Her tone became somewhat interrogative, as though she was noticing something the other three hadn't, "Since when did _ever_ you look scared, Wickett?"   
  
Mason's eyes widened and he involuntarily took a step back, feeling as though the woman had inadvertently chipped away at his ability to keep his composure. The question was phrased in such a way that is seemed accusatory, although it didn't make sense for him to come to such a conclusion. Still, he felt more vulnerable and exposed in a way that the urgency to get back into his house increased tenfold. As if he was trying to hide a part of himself from her. That she would mercilessly judge him for his unreasonable trepidation.   
  
"I-I'm s-sorry, Ms. Yancy, but I have to go," he stuttered, aware that she must have heard him stumble over his words as he began to pace backwards away from her, waving an apologetic hand towards the small woman before turning around and running the rest of the way home. He knew she was watching him the entire time until he slammed the door behind himself.   
  
The moment he felt alone, he slunk to his knees as he took deep gaping breaths in and out.   
  


\-----

  
What was _happening_ to him?   
  
Ginger-lemon tea didn't help. In fact, he could bare manage to bring it to his lips without spilling some onto the table with his jittery hands.   
  
So now the only thing he could do was sit on the couch and wait out the chills and fatigue that came with what he deduced to be a panic attack.   
  
Mason, as far back as he could remember (which remarkably wasn't all that far back since any details he tried to remember before he arrived were murky at best, nonexistent or inconsequential at worst), had never suffered from such a thing...   
  
...Did he?   
  
There was something gnawing at the back of his head that was telling him that that wasn't the case. Which made absolutely no sense. He had no recollection of experiencing something so utterly vivid and terrifying in all his life, but they had appeared in such incredibly tangible detail that for that brief moment he was in that hellish daydream, he had completely forgotten he was in Mr. Johnson's house and was in a small burning village surrounded by verdant jungle, razed by searing blazes.   
  
It was like he was being singed by the flames.   
  
Trapped in a nebulous cloud of smoke.   
  
Watching people _dying._   
  
And the worst part of it all...  
  
It all seemed so _familiar._   
  
He brought his shaky hands to his forehead, leaning on the table as he tried to pull himself together. He rocked back in and forth in his wooden chair, gritting his teeth as he shut his eyes tightly as he tried to block out the intrusive thoughts that were leaking into his consciousness. It was though he was a child again, wanting for his mother.   
  
His mother...   
  
How long had it been since she had crossed his mind?   
  
For once, the office he usually took comfort in, the room he spent most of his time to unwind and relax, offered no solace whatsoever. He was only a few seconds away from curling into a ball.   
  
How did he become such a broken man so suddenly?   
  
He could feel his mind begin to wander again. Into darker, treacherous territories he didn't know exist.   
  
The arid scent of gunpowder, the sound of sirens and cries, the weight of armor...   
  
The voice of...   
  
There was a knock on the door.   
  
The clouding of his mind desisted immediately and his head perked up from the table.   
  
He looked at the direction of the door dumbly for a moment, truly not knowing what to do for a moment before the knocking came again.   
  
He seemed to finally be drawn out his stupor in time to realize that there was a person on the other end of the door waiting for him to answer. He hurriedly stood up from his chair and took a moment to compose himself, getting control of his breathing and wiping the residual moistness that was at the very edges of his eyes before walking to the door.   
  
When he swung it open, he saw Joseph, carrying his medical case in his hand. His hair was still in disarray but Mason had been too out of it to notice.   
  
The youth gave him a small smile before lifting the case up towards him. "Uh, hey there Dr. Wickett. You, uh... you left your bag at the table. Y'know... Mr. Johnson's."   
  
"O-Oh," Mason said simply, slightly nonplussed about the fact. He'd never forgotten his case, making sure it was on his person whenever he was going anywhere with it or leaving with it. His random episode really made him lose his edge.   
  
"Thank you so much, Joseph." Mason gratefully took the case from his hands, giving the man a forced but genuinely appreciative smile. Despite the fact he didn't say it, he was absolutely happy to see the boy that inadvertently saved him from the dark thoughts that had been incoming just several seconds ago. "Maybe I'm really not in the best of shape today, am I?"   
  
Joseph lowered his arm and shrugged, bunching his eyebrows. "Well, Ma also wanted me to come check up on ya' to see if you made it in safely. I mean, we don't live in a large place, but we can't really be having something big sprout up when you're not in one piece, doctor."  
  
"Yeah, I guess you're right. Thought I was more dependable than this," Mason stated grimly, setting the case onto the counter. He began fiddling with the lock on the case. "When you get the chance, give your mother my thanks. I feel like she's treating me like a second son, and I'm only a few years younger than her. I don't want her to feel like I'm over encumbering her in any way."   
  
Joseph seemed to tilt his head in confusion. "I highly doubt you're—what was that word you said, um... _encommerating?_ —I mean, burdening her. I doubt you're burdening her. I think _I_ that more than you ever could."   
  
"You're her _son,_ I doubt she'd ever see you as a burden," Mason said offhanded, focusing on twisting in the second number in the lock. "You shouldn't think yourself as one."   
  
Joseph let out a short laugh. "I don't! Pretty sure she puts me to good use as the errand boy for today! I'm just making a point." Joseph's face shifted into a more curious gaze, his eyes on Mason's case and hands. "By the way, doctor...if you don't mind me asking, what's the deal with that thing on your bag?"   
  
Mason stopped twisting in the fifth and final number into the combination lock and looked back at the teenage boy at his door. "Hm? What do you mean?"   
  
"I mean...I've never seen anything like it before," Joseph elucidated, pointing to the numbers. "The thing with the numbers and metal twisting thing."   
  
Mason raised an eyebrow. "You mean the lock?"   
  
The teen nodded his head, eyes still on the metal apparatus attached to his medical case. "That's what it's called? I mean, is that what you use to close things?"   
  
Mason eyes drifted from the teen's eyes and the lock, bemused. "Er, yeah. I mean, don't you use locks at all? Don't you have any in your home?"   
  
Joseph shook his head, mouth pinching in confusion. "No...I don't think so. I could ask Ma, but I don't know if she knows too. Maybe she does, but I've never noticed anything like that laying around the house."   
  
Mason was about to say that there had to be a lock when something occurred to him. Now that he took a moment to think about it, besides the lock on his case, he didn't have a lock anywhere else in his home. There weren't even locks on any of his doors, even the front door, and from what he could tell from his visitations into the homes of his neighbors, _none_ of them had locks for their doors either. And why would they, no one had the desire to intrude into anyone else's homes and were cordial enough to knock before entering each and every time. No one would barge in without good reason. Hence, the lack of locks for anywhere else in the community...   
  
His medical case was the sole exception.   
  
The gnawing came back.   
  
A crack.   
  
He found himself strangely in thought before he shook his head. "I guess...you've never had a reason to use a lock then. You uh...want to gt a closer look at it?"   
  
Joseph fervently nodded his head, already holding his hand out before Mason managed to pull the lock off the case. The doctor handed it over and watched the boy trace his fingers all over the metal casing and the engraved numbers and cylinder. He twisted and turned it in his hand, bringing it close enough to his eyes to get a better look. "How do you us it?"   
  
Mason found himself struggling how to explain the simple nature of locks. He never thought he'd have to explain something that should have been mundane to a boy who never seen one. He doubt he'd have to go into detail about tumblers or the inner assemblies of one, but the boy would probably want a simple gist of them.   
  
"Well," Mason started, taking the lock back from the teen's hands, "for starters, you use this metal loop here to hook it onto what you want to keep shut." He pointed back to his case, "There's a clasp on my case that the shackle goes in to and you press it down into the hole of this metal body called the padlock. This seals it in place so no one can open it unless they twist the right numbers in."   
  
There was a moment of silence in which Mason seemed to take notice that the boy's face look befuddled. "Something wrong, Joseph? Want me to explain it again?"   
  
"No, no...I'm understanding your explanation...it's just that..." Joseph seemed to struggle a bit on what to say before timidly asking, "Do...Do you not trust someone here, doctor?"   
  
Mason's eyes widened, absolutely shocked at the preposterous assumption. "Wh-What? No! I mean, I trust everyone here! I'm pretty sure we're all on good terms with one another! Nobody here is a thief!"   
  
Joseph seem to flinch away from the doctor. "Sorry, sorry! I didn't mean it like that, doctor! It's just that...well, why do you use it?"   
  
The gnawing increasing.   
  
The crack widened.   
  
That was a good question.   
  
_Why_ did he use a lock when he knew...he absolutely _knew_ deep down, no one would go into his things without permission. Each and every time, he put in the numbers and locked the case right after he was finished using it.   
  
It was a simple and negligible action that shouldn't have had meaning whatsoever.   
  
And yet...   
  
His eyes became vacant before darkening, arms slackening up. He still maintained his grip on the lock, but now questions began to surge in his mind.   
  
What was so important about this lock?   
  
Tension seized him once more as he suddenly seemed to grow aware of something wrong.   
  
Something very wrong.   
  
Joseph looked nervous as tentatively came closer to the frozen doctor. He was quiet for a moment before he quietly asked, "Doctor?"   
  
Mason did say anything immediately, taking a moment to gather his thoughts before he addressed the boy in monotone. "Joseph...can you tell me something?"   
  
Joseph looked unsure as he chewed at his bottom lip, slightly frightened at the change in demeanor of the physician before giving him a simple nod. "Uh...yeah, s-sure, Dr. Wickett."   
  
Mason's question came out even, each word slowly enunciated. "You were here before I was, correct?"   
  
Joseph only nodded, wringing his hands. "The Watcher brought you in. He, uh...said you were the one for everybody to go to whenever anyone was injured or felt sick."  
  
Mason went on. "Do you recall if I came in with the medical case or not?"   
  
Joseph paused, thinking of how to respond to the question. "I mean, I don't really remember. I think I was only seven or eight at the time? I mean, I think so _though_...don't know if you had the same stuff inside it or not but..."   
  
"Did the Watcher ever give you or your mother something like this?" Mason held out the lock once more, With or without numbers? Maybe a key even?"   
  
The boy shook his head. "Definitely not me. I mean, like I said, I can't really speak for my Ma but I never seen anybody else with one. Nobody but you. Is...Is that important?"   
  
"...No...no probably not."   
  
"...Last question," Mason found himself barely repressing a shutter, feeling something pulling at his subconscious. Gaining its hold. "Did I come here alone?"   
  
Joseph nodded in the affirmative. He wasn't surprised by the answer, but something in him creeped up in his person when the boy confirmed his suspicions.  
  
Mason took one last look at the lock in his hand.   
  
The metal was sturdy and in excellent shape but the slight golden accents were fading, and there were scuff marks on the padlock and the rivets below were slightly rusted. He knew for sure he had been assiduously careful with his case, making sure not to rustle its contents too much. There was no reason for it to look as old as it did.   
  
But of course, the thing that grabbed his attention the most was the combination lock fixed with five numbers in black.   
  
He knew the numbers by heart: 0 2 8 6 8.   
  
At first, it seemed awfully unremarkable. Numbers he simply utilized to open to his case.   
  
And yet, the gnawing grew stronger than ever.   
  
The cracks widening, threatening to shatter.   
  
"Dr. Wickett, is everything alright?"   
  
Mason was drawn from his thoughts enough to nod his head. "Yes. Sorry." He gestured towards the back of his house. "Um, Joseph. I really appreciate you coming to my house to bring me my things. I'm sorry but there's something I have to do really quick."   
  
"Oh, I don't mind doctor!" Joseph smiled amicably, seemingly a little too happy to actually be able to return back but Mason didn't care. "Sorry for the intrusion! You take care, sir!"   
  
"Thanks, you too," Mason said hurriedly, no longer thinking about the boy who was leaving back to Mr. Johnson's house, before closing the door behind him, just barely avoiding slamming it, and taking both the case and lock with him before retreating into the back room.   
  
Mason dropped the bag onto his desk as he stared at the lock in his hand.   
  
Zero-Two-Eight-Six-Eight   
  
Five simple numbers to a simple combination lock. Nothing more, nothing less.   
  
At least, that's what he initially thought.   
  
Why did the simple numbers seem to pop out at him now of all times. It didn't make any sense. Yet the specificity of them truly made an impression that was literally making him turn his sequence of them around in his head.   
  
Then, something else mad itself known in his head.   
  
It came without prompting, without context, and without warning.   
  
Small hands clenching his pinky.   
  
A gummy smile, wide with amusement.   
  
Curly brown hair that swirled with her movements.  
  
Chocolate brown eyes, shining brightly as they gazed up at him.   
  
He paled.   
  
A _baby._   
  
_His_ baby.   
  
He was shaking once more. Frightened. Confused.   
  
And yet, somehow, he knew something that he didn't know before.   
  
With a trembling hand, he reached a hand into his case and brushed along the left side. There was a flap that he had never paid any mind before that ever so slightly was bent out of place. Had the thought never materialized in his mind, he would have dismissed it as a sign of wear and tear.   
  
He pulled the flap down a bit and reached behind it, his fingers searching desperately for something.   
  
Then, he felt it.   
  
He stilled, suddenly more afraid than he had been when the hallucinations appeared in his head. More afraid than he could ever remember.   
  
But he still couldn't stop himself from doing what he felt he needed to do next.   
  
With a finger and a thumb, he pulled out the object between his fingers gingerly and brought it slowly to his face.   
  
It fluttered out of his hands the moment he dropped to his knees.   
  
The gnawing came to a head.  
  
The crack burst.   
  
The flood gate opened.   
  
A torrent of images rushed through him in a tidal wave.   
  
Smiling faces. Crying eyes. Screaming. Yelling. Love. Comfort. Pain. Hurt.   
  
Family. Friends. Teachers. Colleagues. Patients. Comrades.   
  
Flashing. Fleeting. Unwanted. Unending. Everything came to him all at once.   
  
All of it.   
  
Hallucinations.   
  
Pictures.  
  
_Memories._  
  
He screamed as the paper laid on the wooden floor at his knees.   
  
A sepia colored photo of his one and only infant daughter. The words written in cursive, plastered on the bottom in black.   
  
**_"Happy Birthday, my dearest Faye."  
  
Feb. 08, 1968 _**


	2. Chapter 2

_**November 9, 1967**_  
  
"The thing I'm looking forward to after all this is a cup of coffee."   
  
Mason hummed into his mug as his wife simply watched him in mild jealousy across the kitchen table. It would be a lie if he said something along the lines of "I know what you're going through," since he obviously didn't. A cup of joe was both the go-to for start of his day and the downtime of his afternoon. He rarely went a single day without it. Abigail was now on a little over five and a half months clean from it after forcing herself to go cold turkey in early August once the swell of her belly began to become a bit more apparent through her clothes.   
  
Abigail laid her head on her hands and sighed. "Just a nice large cup with a dash of vanilla and whole bunch a' cinnamon. Just the thought of it making me want ta' pull my hair out."   
  
Mason took a long swig of the warm liquid, taking in Abigail's words and pondering what it was like to give up one of his favorite drinks for months for the better of the new life to nourish. He honestly couldn't. He didn't doubt that he would definitely do it if he were in her situation, but he was genuinely glad that he wasn't in a position where he had to do so. He ate healthy enough and took good care of himself. No known allergies, thank God. He'd had a patient a few weeks back who found out they had to give up eggs and was in turmoil that he couldn't have any more cake from there on. He didn't envy him. Being able to eat whatever he could was just something he really shouldn't have been taking for granted.   
  
The young physician put down his cup. "You always add far to many things your coffee. All that milk and vanilla. Ruins the taste for me. Can't even call it coffee anymore."   
  
"Oh?" Abigail grinned to her husband, curious. "Then what would you call it then?"   
  
"I'd say... _piss,_ but I'd feel like an ass."   
  
"Yeehaw, yeehaw," his wife said dryly, finishing her apple juice.   
  
Mason smirked, "Well, I guess...basically toffee milk."   
  
"You act as though toffee milk would taste gross," Abigail said, placing her cup down.  
  
"It _would."_ Mason leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms out. He was truly happy to be home after a relatively stressful week. "But then I remember you actually like toffee."   
  
"As if it's any different from caramel."   
  
Mason chuckled. "I keep telling you, toffee and caramel are two different things. Like...chocolate cake and brownies, they look the same but not."   
  
Abigail rolled her eyes and gave Mason's dormant hand on the table a playful smack. "Don't talk 'bout chocolate when there's none in the house."   
  
"Good thing you said chocolate instead of coffee."   
  
"I'm tempted. But don't press me."  
  
Both husband and wife went into a shared laugh, giggling at the simple humor.   
  
It was a cooler afternoon, and while he got the fireplace going early in the morning, he decided to don a wool jacket to keep him a bit warmer. Unlike Abigail, who suffered bouts of hot flashes and was always complaining about feeling overheated ever since she got the bun in the oven. His mother-in-law rattled on to him about how he should do more around the house when his wife would eventually get too incapacitated to do her regular routine chores, and while he didn't necessarily disagree with her, he was far too busy at the clinic to do more. Eventually his sister-in-law would come over to their home to help around as much she could, but he hadn't been looking forward to that. Not that he disliked his sister, she had been nice and helpful enough, a truly reliable woman. But he enjoyed the fact that it was just the two of them, him and wife.   
  
His eyes narrowed imperceptibly when he thought about that.   
  
It would no longer be just the two of them.   
  
Not anymore.   
  
There was going to be a third person in the mix now. A new family member that he and his spouse had created together.   
  
Their child.   
  
He had always wanted a family growing up. His father had died of pneumonia before he was born, and his mother, bless her heart, had been so busy working several menial jobs just to make ends meet that he barely saw her. He had practically been raised by his grandmama before her sudden passing. Her passing had spurred him onto joining the medical field by any means, jumping through hoops and over fire to make ends meet and do what he could to help. Shining shoes, cutting grass, delivery services and after school cleanup...   
  
In many ways he had become just as busy as his mother did. Somewhere along the line, having a family wasn't at the forefront of his mind anymore, his medical career taking priority.   
  
Newly minted and feeling rather achieved for someone still in clinical residency, he somehow managed to marry the woman he met on that fateful day in the store and start a new life with her in the outskirts of Savannah, Georgia. He was doing as well as a colored man could all things considered.   
  
And now he was going to be a father.   
  
Even now, it felt unreal.   
  
It felt arrogant of him to think that he deserved this after everything he went through. How many had been in his shoes and lucked out? How many worked blood, sweat and tears towards that happy ending that never came? Many times, he felt that he hadn't done enough to be worthy of a wonderful wife, the cornerstone of his life and his partner who weathered the storms with him, whom he easily came to love and cherish for the few years they had been together, let alone for them now have the culmination of their love soon come into the world.   
  
He was lucky.   
  
Fortunate.   
  
This child of theirs...   
  
Mason eyes went up to ponder.   
  
He felt that it was going to be a boy. He just knew it. And Winston was going to be a great name for him.   
  
Well, either Winston or Carlton, the name of the deceased father he never met. Carlton Winston Wickett. Had a ring to it.   
  
Then again, Winston Wickett sounded pretty catchy.   
  
So maybe Carlton would be better suited for the middle—  
  
"Bet you're thinkin' 'bout the name."   
  
"Huh?" Mason blinked at look back to his wife bemused. The soft southern lilt of her voice immediately drew him out of his thoughts.   
  
The woman gave him a knowing smile. "The name of our child."   
  
Mason through his head back, eyes scrunched in shock. She'd always went about women's intuition and all that, but witnessing her deducing his thoughts like that had been startling to say the least.   
  
"That's scary, don't do that." He mock scolded with a scoff.   
  
"You make it too easy for me. Gotta watch your face in the mirror, hon. Tells you all." She chuckled a bit and twirled a bit of her dark hair with a finger. "Well first of all, no matter how many time you think it, it ain't gonna be a boy. So drop the Winston and Carlton names already. Not gonna fly."   
  
"I'm telling you, we mother's just—"   
  
_"'We mothers just know.'_ Like I haven't heard _that_ one before.That phrase's is a dime a dozen." Mason shook his head, tutting with his tongue. "Trust me. A whole bunch of moms coming strolling in my clinic saying the same thing, but the doctors and nursemaids doing the delivery tell me otherwise."   
  
"Well trust me when I say, _she's_ gonna be a Faye before any Winston or Carlton."   
  
"I still don't see why we shouldn't try for those sonogram machines."   
  
Abigail rolled her eyes, letting out an exaggerated scoff, "You know how I feel 'bout those things." She stood up from her chair and walked to the sink to start washing her cup. "You know, ten years ago, people were just fine about makin' guesses at what the baby was gonna be, guy or gal...that was the fun. You'd be able to make up a list a' names and could make the best choice once the baby comes out. Now? Half the magic's gone when some folk can't wait out a few months to be a bit more creative. It better not become some big thing later on. Nobody'll have the patience to wait it out."   
  
"You're a real stickler, Abby." Mason stood up behind his wife and hug her from behind tenderly, nuzzling his nose into her hair. Abby raised a hand above and coddled his head, leaning into his embrace.   
  
"Tell me somethin' I don't know." The small woman whispered coyly, turning her head to face him, her chestnut brown eyes glittering under the lamp light, those eyes that made her catch his attention nearly four years ago.   
  
He gently took the cup she was wiping from her hand and set it aside and he leaned in to kiss her, with his wife turning around to reciprocate. After the shared kiss, he leaned back and very gently budged his wife to the side as he took her place at the sink. "I got these, babe."   
  
Abby laughed. "Well look at _you,_ pickin' up the slack."   
  
"Quiet you," Mason said with a small chuckle. "Acting like I get home before seven o'clock."   
  
"You'll have to in a bit once your daughter—"   
  
_"Son."_   
  
" _—daughter_ gets here. Pretty sure you'll coworkers will understan'. Being a brand new dad and all that jazz."   
  
Faye started to leave the kitchen and Mason snuck a glance at his wife as he began washing dishes. His eyes were drawn to her rotund bump protruding beyond the yellow striped dress. As uncertain as the future felt for him with only a couple of months remaining, it was a challenge he wholeheartedly welcomed.   
  
He'd give this child the life _he'd_ deserve.   
  
Before he heard the pitter-patter of Abigail's feet go up the stairs, there was a knock on the door.  
  
"I've got it," Abigail called out as she made her way to the door, out of his peripheral vision.   
  
Mason simply resumed to washing the dishes, humming the tune to the _Addam's Family_ to himself.   
  
After several long seconds, Mason noticed that he didn't hear the door open. He figured it must've been no one at the door and went to continuing on adding detergent to a dirtied crockpot when he heard the softer than normal steps of his wife reentering the kitchen. He turned around, a bit confused.   
  
"Hey hon, was it just some kid who..." he trailed off once he noticed something off immediately about his wife.   
  
Her dark skin was a bit more ashen than normal, her eyes wide and lips tersely pinched together. There was a look of horror on her face, one that was beginning to creep up onto his.   
  
"Abby, what's wrong?" He put the washcloth and pot down, growing dread began to mottle around in his stomach and chest. He had seen many expressions on his wife's face since the time he had been together, but this was the first time he had seen her truly looking afraid. She was a resilient girl, something he had noticed early on when he'd courted her. To see her actually paling immediately tipped her off that something was greatly amiss.   
  
Abby glanced back out the corridor and to the door before looking back at him. Without warning, she hurriedly strode up to her husband and grabbed him by the shoulders in a grip that was surprisingly strong for a woman a head shorter than him.   
  
"Listen to me, Mason. For the love of God, listen to me," She demanded with a certain gravitas that made her seem bigger than she really was. "Quietly go up the stairs and pack your bags as quickly you can. Don't open the door. Don't make a sound. And go out the back door."   
  
The moment the words ushered out of his wife's mouth in that whisper, Mason had the sinking suspicion of exactly who might've been at the door.   
  
He immediately forgot about the dishes, soapy water dripping from his limp hands to the wooden floor. His heart was in his ears as he barely managed to outwardly repress the sense of panic that was forming inside of him.   
  
His wife gave him a hard shook, forcefully making him refocus on his her. "Don't dawdle. I'll tell him that you're still at work while you get ready. I'll get the car out back goin' the moment you get your bags and we'll start drivin'."   
  
_"Oh God."_   
  
The knock at the door came again. Both of them jumped at the sound, but Abigail recovered before he did.   
  
"Get goin'. _Go."_ Abigail began to push Mason forward towards the direction of the stairs.   
  
He stopped and looked at his wife, who nervously was clasping at her elbow and mouth. Her eyes were pleading.   
  
More than anything, he wanted to do exactly what his wife said. He wanted to go up the stairs, grab the bare necessities, and escape with her as far as they could right then and now. Make a new life for themselves. No one would have to know.   
  
But he knew... he absolutely _knew_ it was a pipe dream.   
  
They'd be caught before they made it _anywhere_ to safety. They'd be caught before they'd make it to anyplace like Canada. They'd be lucky if they even made it out of Georgia.   
  
They'd be caught, he'd be arrested, and she'd be on her own raising their child by herself like both his mother and grandmother had done for him.   
  
He was certain that them both loved him and wouldn't have regretted their decision in the slightest at doing their best to raise him. But during the times he stayed there as a young boy, playing with his toys or peeking from the door frame, he would see how _tired_ they both were. His mother, eyes sunken with dark bags underneath. She'd barely have energy to make anything in the kitchen, let alone spend time with him, whenever she got back in the late night hour. She'd be up early before sunrise and spend over twelve hours away simply making an honest living for both of them after the passing of her own mother. Barely sleeping. Barely eating. Her smiles dimming as the years dragged on, until he _easily_ could tell which were real and which were fake, the latter more often seen just for his sake.   
  
It had been no surprise that she'd eventually worked herself into an early grave, just so he could have a life for himself.   
  
Although no one said it, and perhaps no one even _believed_ it, he felt as though he had been somewhat responsible for her death. Doing everything in her power to give him a future, something she had been bereft of since the day he was born.   
  
He didn't want his wife to be married to a felon.   
  
He didn't want her to raise a child without a father.   
  
He didn't want her to end up like his _own_ mother.   
  
And while he didn't know if that may as well be the same case once he opened that door, as least their was a better chance of her having a better life for both him and his child if he were to survive than if he was behind bars and marked as a pariah for the rest of his life.  
  
No.   
  
She deserved better.   
  
Mason looked at his wife once more, giving her a sad look and shook his head. His wife's grew paler as a shudder went through her.   
  
"Please, Mason." Her voice was a quiet whisper, filled with fear and sadness. "Please _don't."_   
  
Once again, he felt the desire to run away with his wife to start anew, but he ignored it with the conviction of what he thought he was doing the best for her. This would be it.   
  
Unable to bear the desperate eyes of his love, he turned around, walked to the front of his house, and opened the door.   
  
A tall white man dressed in a tan three-piece suit and porkpie hat stood there at the front step. His clean-shaven angular face was solemn as his dark green eyes met Mason's dark brown. He had an aura of strict poise and duty as he waited for Mason still enough to address him. The doctor could already tell from his demeanor that he had previous service.   
  
"Afternoon sir," he greeted, although his voice didn't carry the same warmth of a typical guest at the door. "Are you Mr. Mason Gregory Wickett?"   
  
"I am," he confirmed, already wishing he hadn't. There was no point in lying. The young doctor knew there'd be no point. He also knew that the soldier in front of him knew who he was the moment he opened the door.   
  
The man in the suit pulled out the letter and handed over the envelope that filled him with such incredible terror the moment it went into his hands. A simple piece of paper, yet is spelled out life or death.   
  
The first full sentence that came from the soldier's mouth were heavy and purposely made monotone, and was the scariest thing he had ever heard since hearing about the death of his mother over fourteen years ago.   
  
"On behalf of the President of the United States, I would like to inform you that you are hereby inducted into the armed forced to serve our country."   
  


\----- 

**September 15, 1977**

After Mason knocked knocked on the door, it was quickly opened by Jeffrey Thompson, who seemed a bit surprised to see the doctor at his doorstep. 

The twenty-something year old man took the proffered hand gave Mason a firm shake. "Doctor Wickett! Pleasure to see you! Heard you had a rough day yesterday after the thing with Harold." 

Mason smiled at the young balding man, "Ah, you heard about that? Don't worry, it's probably from not getting enough sleep last night. Page turners tend to rob me of the night sometimes." 

"So it wasn't anything serious?" Jeffrey asked, relief palpable through the released tenseness of the carpenter's shoulders. "Thank goodness! Y'know many of us were getting a bit worried sick." 

"I really appreciate the sentiment, Jeffrey. Didn't mean to worry anyone. But trust me, I'm now in better shape then ever. Just caught up on all the needed rest all day yesterday," Mason lied, hoping his friendly demeanor hid it well enough. 

Apparently it did as Jeffrey gave him a warm scolding. "Now now, doctor. You of all people should know that you need at least eight hours of sleep. Sometimes you have to know when to put the book down." 

Mason forced out a short hearty-sounding laugh. "Ain't that the truth." 

Jeffrey tilted his head in friendly manner. "So, doctor, what brings you over to my house? I'm guessing it's my annual appointment?" 

Mason shook his head. "Not yet. Think you have about a good four months until then. Actually, I was wondering if I could borrow a stapler if you have one. I mean, tape or glue would do just fine too, but I know you don't need the staplers as much so..." 

_"Borrow_ one? _Hmph!"_ The man disappeared out from the door and to the room in the side. He was back a few seconds later, holding out a dark blue stapler towards him. "Buddy, you can _have_ one! Heck, you'd be doing me a solid taking one a' these out of my hands! I'm backed up with them in the top drawer in my office." 

Mason appreciatively took the stapler out of the younger man's hand. "Are you sure? I mean, I could give it back to you once I'm done with it." 

Jeffrey waved his hands down with a shake of his hands. "Keep it. The Watcher gave me too many of them. Probably could give them to everybody here." 

Mason held the stapler to him and gave the younger man a grateful smile. "Thank you, Jeffrey." 

"Anytime," the carpenter's face became curious. "Say, is that all you came here for?" 

Mason tensed a bit but immediately fixed his composure. "Yeah, that's all. Sorry if it was for a mundane reason. Just needed something to keep some loose papers together since I didn't feel like ripping any out of a book. Didn't to just pull you out of whatever you were doing." 

"Hey, no worries!" Jeffrey said with a bright grin. "I was just whipping up a sandwich. Just put the bread together the moment you knocked on my door." 

"Ah, I see. Well, you enjoy your sandwich then! Thanks again for the stapler. Take care now!" Mason said with a wave. 

"You too!" The carpenter waved back as he closed the door behind himself as he returned to his toasted cheese sandwich.  
  
Mason strode back to his home and waved congenially to all who past by. Mr. Redfield was the jolliest one to wave back while young Ulysses Jr. had been the quickest. Mr. Johnson and his wife were a few who saw and waved back, and Mason got a quick look at the stitch job Mrs. Burnham had done on his arm in his place, which was thankfully well done. He'd have to remember to give her his thanks once he saw her. 

The entire time, he remembered to smile and present a look of jubilant openness, all the way until he stepped inside his house. 

However, the moment the door closed behind him, the false jubilance was wiped off his face, replaced by a look of somber determination. Darkness made itself apparent in his eyes as his smile vanished once he looked at the stapler in his hand. 

Out of a habit from his old life, he peeked around himself, making sure there were no wondering eyes upon him. Although a part of him told him it made no sense, as no one within the small town probably even felt the notion to intrude in his "home," or were even capable of it. But it was a holdover that had served him well in the past, and one that kept his sense sharp. 

Once he knew he was alone, he scurried to his office as quickly as he could and closed the door behind himself. In a flurry of motion, he pulled out the medical journal log from the first compartment of his desk and a pen before going to his medical bag. With more care than anything he handled before, he drew out the photograph from the hidden flap on the side and went back to his desk. 

His one and only daughter, Faye. 

He'd forgotten about her. 

It should have been impossible, but he had _completely_ and _utterly forgotten her.  
_  
But now he'd actually make sure that he _wouldn't.  
_  
Not _again._

Pushing down his inner turmoil and inner disgust with himself enough to focus on the task at hand, he picked up the stapler and opened the first page of the log. 

Carefully, he positioned the picture on the back of the book cover and began to staple the borders of the photo to it. After making sure it was securely in place, tapping and waving the cover back and forth, he gently traced a finger tip down the picture of his infant daughter's cheek, as though he could physically feel it. 

Although it was simply laminated paper under his touch, he remembered the soft and warmth of his daughter's smiling face. Her chubby little hands that gripped at his. Those eyes that looked back at him with such mirth as he rocked her back and forth. The gummy smile she gave him as she giggled whenever he had nuzzled her's. 

He remembered it. He actually _could_ remember it. 

He flipped through the twenty-something pages worth of writing he had done last night that entailed a list of every important event that he recalled since the violent resurgence of his memories. While a few of his memories were still fuzzy, and he himself didn't trust all of them to be completely accurate, he knew that they were his anchor to his sanity and sense of self in a place that somehow became his entire world. 

Once he reached the first clear page after the list of hastily written recollections, he picked up his pen and drew a line through the center, signifying the beginning of the new events unfolding. With a thoughtful pause before he began, he looked around the room, hoping to see nothing amiss. 

Then, once he realized there was nothing holding him back, he began to write. 

\----- 

_Journal Entry #1_

 _09/15/77, 10:07 AM_

 _It has been around twenty-four hours since I got my memories back. As scary as it sounds, I don't know if they're real or fake, but I'm positive that they didn't come from nowhere. Either way, I will start cataloging everything that happens from here on out and any significant changes that happen. Now is as good a time to begin, I suppose. I will start with the facts I know about myself._

 _To start with, I am Mason Gregory Wickett. I'm 35 years old, birthday June 8, 1942. My wife is Abigail Lorraine Wickett_ _née Fountaine and daughter named Faye Teresa Wickett. Abigail's birthday is March 2, 1941, meaning she should be 36 years old now. This would also have to mean that Faye must be nine now. My God, have I really missed so much of my daughter's childhood already?_

  
 _Anyway,_ _This is a personal log for my eyes and my eyes alone. I will do everything in my power to see that no one becomes aware of this journal that will be my tether to real world beyond the walls that are keeping me here in this small community without a name._

 _I can remember now._

 _My birthplace in Crownsville, Maryland. My home in Savannah, Georgia. My mother Rian Wickett and my grandmother Tzipporah Annalee. My father whom died seven months before my birth had been named Henry Wickett. The first school I attended was Gadsden Elementary school. I attended_ _Alabama State University in 1959-1963 majoring in biology and pre-med while interning at Frazier Jr. Clinic before its closure. Went to Howard University College of Medicine in 1963 and graduated in 1966. I married my wife in January 1964 at Gethsemane Spirit Baptist Church. Entered residency training sometime in February 1967. I was drafted in December 9, 1967 and served until Oct. 23, 1968 with an honorable discharge after receiving a leg injury that I'm sincerely glad managed to heal._

 __ _All this I remember._

 _But what I don't remember is how I got here._

 _I don't know even where "here" is._

 _This place doesn't have a name or title or anything. Damn if I know if anyone else knows where they are either. But it seems that most of these people have some sort of southern or transatlantic accent so, probably south-east of the US maybe? I don't know._

 _In any case, I do not know if these people are the ones who kidnapped me or erased my memories. It's like an episode of the Twilight Zone. Then again, could it just be me? Am I the only one in the dark on everything going on? Does everyone else have their straight and I'm the only insane one here? Is there something I'm not getting. Hell if I know. For the time being, I'll have to be more observant of the people around me and try to gather as much information as possible of this place, whoever placed me here, and how I was brought here, and why. Right now, I know nothing about what's going on now that I've finally managed to re-obtain my ability to freely think about my situation._

 _But there are three things I know._

 _My name is Mason Wickett._

 _I've come to my senses Sept. 14, 1977._

 _And I am trapped.  
_


	3. Chapter 3

**_December 2, 1967_**  
  
Mason hadn't really been surprised that his deferment had been rejected, nor that there was a chance that they probably chucked it in a trash can. The MEPS had determined he was fit for service in a short span of time, and upon documenting his medical background he was determined to go to Fort Sam Houston to receive training to become a corpsman. Doctors were desperately needed, they had told him. And while he didn't doubt that fact, he wanted to scream more than anything once he heard how far he'd be assigned away from home.   
  
And now, he and numerous others sat silently in the seats of their transport that continued to bring them to their destination, all bearing the same look of somber or fearful introspection.  
  
As the green scenery passed by on the silent bus ride, he couldn't help but think back on the last time he saw his wife's face.   
  
She'd been fighting back tears behind an angry facade, biting her bottom lip. There hadn't been a long-winded conversation of secrets. There hadn't been a final night of passion (especially as she grew rounder). There hadn't even been a night of arguing, hugging, or loud crying.   
  
All that happened was her grabbing him by the shirt and telling him in a quiet yet heartfelt whisper, "Just come back."   
  
And he nodded, hugged her, kissed her, and left.   
  
Such a short exchange, only three words, that repeated in his mind for hours on end.   
  
In a way, it only took those three words to really drive home exactly what he was getting into. Sure he hadn't reached the base yet, now en route for basic and military medical training, but it really broke through the numbing shield he had placed around himself after he heard the news that he'd be sent to fight on behalf of the nation.   
  
And with the shield gone, he was forced to acknowledge his situation for what it was.   
  
_Terrifying._   
  
_Unjust._   
  
And _disgusting.  
  
_ Mason had never considered himself to be patriotic. Sure he was born, raised and made a living in this country, but while there were things he liked about it, he could never say he truly loved his country.   
  
He'd always been reminded of the times he been turned away from restaurants and venues or being forced to drink from a rusty, dinky fountain instead of the nicer ones all because of his skin color for most of his life. The time he'd seen one of his favorite ice cream store owners forcefully apprehended three weeks into his residency for allegedly sympathizing with the USSR only because she was a Russian immigrant who'd miss her family she'd left back in home country. Or the time he saw his mother nearly collapse with overwork, only for her job to call her back the next day instead of allowing her the rest she needed.   
  
No, he didn't love his country. Not enough to be _willing_ to throw his life for it.   
  
But here he was, on his way to do just that because he'd be incarcerated if he refused. Simply because it was his duty as a citizen.   
  
The sun was just beginning to go down by the time he found himself too mentally exhausted to stay awake.   
  
He leaned his shoulder on the metal walls of the bus and slowly closed his eyes, getting the last bit of true rest he'd probably get for a long time.   
  
Before he drifted off to sleep, the question popped in his mind to be left unanswered.   
  


_Why fight a war for a country he couldn't bring himself to love?_

_\-----_

 __

Journal Entry #4

09/20/77, 11:22 PM 

Although memories of my past life have returned to me, it seems that not only have my memories of my arrival to this town are extremely vague and fragmented, but common sense inquiries that I would have normally had have also been suppressed along with them. It is frightening to say that it was only until a few days that I even had the notion to try to run away, let alone actually develop a plan to do so. 

Somehow, for years, I had never once thought about my predicament as anything out of the ordinary, and not once had I even tried to remember aspects of my old life beforehand. 

I do not know if I was under the influence of a drug or underwent some sort of illegal experimentation process, but I fear that should whoever may have been responsible for my previous mental state may catch wind of my renewed awareness and may act accordingly to return me to that previous illusionary state. 

I don't want that. 

What frightens me more is that there are dozens of people residing in this small town as me who may also undergone the same conditioning? 

Just the thought that everyone here had become some guinea pig for some depraved research experiment makes me sick. 

But if I'm the only one aware of this hellish situation, then I'll be damned if I give them the satisfaction of watching me beyond these walls. 

\------

 **September 21, 1977**

Mason finished the diagram of the town and threw his pen down onto his desk. With all the information filled out, he looked at his drawing and list once more. 

Forty houses and outhouses. Fifty-seven trees, most measuring in twenty to thirty feet in height, the tallest reaching thirty-four feet. Two "stores" (this town didn't use any currency whatsoever, so it seemed pointless to call them anything but basic suppliers), one well (which was odd since it always replenished when there was never rain and none were taken from the two small ponds), one gazebo, and fifty-two people in total. 

Out of the fifty-two people, twenty-two of them were married, four were under the age of thirteen, nine of them were over the age of fifty-five, with three being over the age of sixty-five. 

His eyes and fingers lingered on the self-made portrait of the wall. When he had done his rounds once everyone had been too occupied to give him attention, he made a clear measurement of it's diameter, height, and material. 

The wall in total measured roughly 1,500 yards by the steps he took, give or take. Admittedly, he wasn't too sure about his measurements due to the fact that he didn't have a proper measuring stick but it was the best measurement he'd been able to round to. The height of the walls, on the other hand, was only a mere forty-odd feet, rivaling the roofs of the houses. Had the houses been at least several dozen feet closer to the walls, he was pretty sure he'd be able to climb to the top of it from the roof of his own home. 

It was the material of the walls that were the most perplexing. It was amazing that such a strong mental block had been in place for him to not even think about its makeup. Then again, whatever had blocked off his memories had been so strong, any desire to leave or even think about even remotely trying to escape hadn't even existed within his mind until a week before now. 

The material teetered the line of being translucent and opaque, generating a soft light that may or may not be originating from inside. It was perfectly smooth and seamless, with no signs of an entry point nor an exit; that little detail scared him, as the only way he had to be taken inside would have had to been by _air_ lest there be a hidden trapdoor somewhere within the town, a possibility he hadn't knocked just yet. Perfectly sturdy yet made of a slippery inorganic substance that allowed his hand to glance harmlessly down when he had rubbed against it, like polymer rather than stone or brick. 

As if it were _glass._ Or at least some sort of hard plastic. 

Trying to break through it using the sledgehammer he had borrowed from the Galasso family had proven to be a fruitless endeavor. He had left out at the cusp of curfew when everyone had been indoors when he decided to give it a chance to strike the part of the wall behind his home. It only took two tries for him to realize that any man power he, or likewise the entire community could even put in _combined_ , wouldn't even so much as put a dent into the wall and trying to do so would only end in failure. 

So the only possibility left was to _climb_ it. 

Of course, he'd need more rope or something sturdy and long enough to throw onto the edge of the walls. A makeshift hook would be needed to catch the edge. And with the walls being as slick as they were, he'd definitely needed to work on his own stamina to make sure he'd be able to scale up the walls with his arm and leg strength alone. It had been several years since he had been in active duty, and while he was still relatively fit, he had long been out of practice to even attempt to pull off the stunt. 

So, his objective and manner of escape had been planned: exercise and gather the materials to climb the wall. 

That had been the simplest part so far. 

He went to the back of his diagram and looked at the obstacles on his list. 

On paper, his plan had seemed relatively simple, but he wasn't daft enough to think that was all it took. 

While the most obvious one had been the wall surrounding the entirety of the town, it was his fellow town dwellers that posed as one of his biggest obstacles. 

He wouldn't be able to enact any sort of escape plan so long as he didn't get their day-to-day patterns down. Find out who was trustworthy and who wasn't. A more than daunting task. 

Was there a possible insider that lurked within these walls tasked with making sure everyone was under whatever mental influence he'd been under? Someone observing any change in habits or behaviors of the small colony within these walls? The thought perturbed him, that there was a chance that he'd inadvertently made himself known, that someone may be aware that he was now capable of thinking without a mental block or with genuine memories and thoughts of his own. 

He shivered, knowing that if such a person did exist and were to ever gain word of his reestablished independence, he or she would report to the person who'd be the greatest threat of all. 

He pulled the paper other paper on his desk and focused upon the encircled word at the top of it. 

_The Watcher._

The only one who he could link to being behind or at least some part in his predicament...at least if some residual holdover of the mental block didn't seem to obscure any memory or image of him whenever he tried hard to picture whoever they could have been. 

His mind became fuzzy whenever he tried to think on whoever The Watcher was or could be. It was strange...and extremely bizarre. Any attempt at trying to even picture them ended up looking like a shadowy figure without any distinct features whatsoever before he'd experience a headache for a short stint of time. 

No name, no face, no age or anything that would help to identify him or her in any fashion. They might as well have been a phantom of his imagination, haunting each and every person. Funnily enough, the idea of them being a ghost felt more plausible each time he tried to dwell on it. A ghost that interacted with people that asked of them. 

At least it would make sense as to why one of the few things he knew about them would be their ability to freely leave these walls to supply them of whatever they needed. 

Until recently, he never thought about anything beyond the walls, that an entire world lay beyond them. A world he had once been apart of. It was as though going beyond them had been like going to the space...anything within those artificial walls making up the entirety of everything. And why not? There was never a shortage of food or water. He had a great shelter and company. And whatever supplies or anything needed only be asked to The Watcher who readily gave them what was needed whenever it was needed. Although it had been a fabrication emotion, he had been simply content with no desire to see beyond those walls. 

For some reason, he figured that he'd probably been able to see the Watcher at some point in time; after all, how else would they be able to place things inside for them to use? Books, building materials, plenty of food and water to feed them for weeks...even the well had been personally implemented by them somehow in the dead of night. Anytime he was low on certain medicine or herbs, he himself had asked for these things and had resupplied with them the next day, thinking nothing of where or how they had been acquired. While they were mostly capable of building and creating on their own, whenever something was truly needed it would be supplied by the hypothetical ghost that lurked within these town walls or out of it. 

Certainly, if the Watcher was indeed responsible for supplying the town with whatever it needs and overseeing the events taking place within, they couldn't be working alone...could they? Although relatively small, maintaining a town of this size most definitely would need several people at work at the very least, making sure everything was copacetic for it to function as well as it was. Was it possible that they were in a fabricated environment made to observe human behavior under some sort of drug or mental conditioning, a research experiment funded by an underground group or even the government itself?

He grimaced, feeling a bit indignant. The thought that there may have been several people looking in as though it was an enclosure for humans made his blood boil. As though they were in a zoo, just barely withholding peanuts to toss in at them like they were monkeys and laughing at their antics. Entertainment for the outside world to see. 

Well, let them laugh; he wouldn't be entertaining them for too long. 

Looking away from the paper that listed the Watcher's information, currently consisting of only knowledge that they most likely brought materials and necessities overnight and that they may or may not consist of more than one person, he went back to the diagram and turned the paper around to switch to the see the tasks he'd needed to start now that he had circled the perimeter. 

He frowned as he saw what he wrote under the crossed-off task of measuring and testing the perimeter, realizing that he should have switched the two in case he given himself away; so desperate to see if escape was possible he hadn't thought as logically as he was now, having been so consumed with the need to leave he didn't take the time to think with as much clarity. 

His next task lay in dark blue print: Search for hidden cameras and any covert listening devices that was sending information to the outside. 

There had to be some lurking within the corners of the entirety of the enclosed town, how else would they know what was needed and who asked for what? Not only that, but it would only be practical for them to be installed for surveillance of their "test subjects" to see how everything took place under their watchful gazes. 

So, with that goal in mind, he shut the papers within his journal and placed it into his desk. Deciding to do a quick sweep of the room, he donned a casual demeanor to the best of his ability and, with a deep intake of air to calm his nerves, he proceeded out the door. 

\----- 

Adam Debber was hard at work tending to the flowers of his garden when he noticed Mason's shadow passing by him, making him look up. Adam waved a dirt-encrusted gloved hand at the doctor and smiled. "Good morning, Dr. Wickett!" 

Mason, whose eyes had been mainly on the gardener's house for any hint of glass or metallic devices underneath the roof's cover, had been so distracted that it took him several seconds to realize someone had greeted him. Belatedly, he was drawn out of his thoughts in a snap and looked down to the gardener with a flash of a smile. "Oh, good morning Mr. Debber." He scratched the back of his head, feeling a bit anxious and flustered that he had been hyper-focused on looking for surveillance equipment that he had forgotten to pay enough attention to the people around. A mistake that could have costed him if his theory of an insider proved correct, particularly if it had been Mr. Debber. "How are you today?"  
  
The man showed no indication that he found Mason's behavior suspicious as he lowered his hands and refocused on his assortment of flowers. "Absolutely peachy, as always. Lovely day, isn't it?" 

Mason's quirked a smidgen. It was _always_ a "lovely day." It never rained, it never snowed. It never hailed, sleeted, or stormed. The weather was always perfectly warm and sunny. Blue skies and few clouds. It only helped to give credit that they resided in a simulated environment of some sort. 

Nonetheless, he played along and nodded his head. "Sure is! I'm pretty sure your plants are growing quite well. How are they?" 

Mason watched Mr. Debber get to his feet and take a step back to showcase his hard work. "Growing nicely! Have to admit, I had to wrestle with the orchids a bit, since they always seem to put up a fight growing them, but my petunias and daisies are growing nicely. The saffrons and dahlias are really showing themselves off though. 'Bout time. Pretty sure I recalled Mrs. Angela might want some of these flowers in her vases. You know she's the floral type." 

"You're right about that, she really is the type to obsess over such things," Mason said through a forced laugh. "I'm surprised she's not making a garden of her own. Probably just wasn't to get her hands dirty or mess with the bees or anything?" 

"Bees?" 

Mason abruptly cut himself off from his laughter when he heard the gardener. Looking back at him, the gardener bore a look of pure confusion, as if he had said a foreign word. 

Mr. Debber tilted his head, still bemused. "What do you mean bees?" 

A feeling of dread began to settle in his heart. Now that he brought it up, he realized that he'd never seen any bees since he'd been there. Not once. In fact, the whole place seemed bereft of any insect or animal life whatsoever. No tweet of a bird or buzz of a fly. The only life that took place within were plant life and the humans inside. 

Oh God, he screwed up. 

"I-um, I m-mean..." Mason stumbled on his words, trying to figure out how to change the topic in case there actually was someone listening in. 

He frantically searched for some sort of way to derail the conversation. "N-Nothing, they're-uh...you said that orchids are hard to grow, right? How long were you working on them?" 

Mason felt himself exhale when he got his wish; the older man beaming at the mention of his orchids. "Oh, you don't know the half of it! You see, orchids don't really grow in dirt. You'll suffocate them if you try, and when I was just starting, I had no idea what I was doing..." 

Mason maintained a steady smile as the gardener prattled on about orchids, before repeatedly changing topics towards his other plants. He nodded at the right times and put in a word or two, but mostly the other man continued to talk about his flowers without abandon. As passionate as the other man was about his flower patches, Mason honestly couldn't bring himself to care, as his mind was mostly on how much more attentive he had to be of his surroundings, and how much more careful he had to be in mentioning things that those within may not be aware of...at least yet. 

He wanted to hope he was overthinking the whole thing...that it really would be a pointless conversation to just explain something like insect pollination. Just as he had explain the concept of a lock to Joseph. 

But if there was hard lesson he had learned from his past experiences, it was that _anyone_ could be listening. 

It was after ten minutes of talking about the intricacies of plant life that Mr. Debber had finally decided to change topics to something completely different. "Say, doctor...just saying, I'm glad you're feeling better. You'd been mostly holed up in your house for several days. Think I only saw you a couple of times actually." 

So droned out of the conversation, he was a bit startled to hear Mr. Debber readdress him for the second time. He nearly tripped over his own words to find a proper response. "Oh, thank you. Yes, unfortunately last week, I'd had a little bout of insomnia. I'm feeling much better." Better than he had been before now that he was of relatively clear thought. 

"Oh, I have just the things for that!" Then right after his ecstatic outburst, Mr. Debber suddenly deflated right after his statement, "...well, I would have if I hadn't already used most of them. And to think, I had forgotten to cultivate the seeds." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean," Mr. Debber pointed to an empty spot in his patch, only fertile soil in its place. "Next to my gardenias, I used to have a few chamomile flowers, not a lot though. Still, if you dry them up and put 'em in hot water, you can make it into tea. Might help you sleep." 

Mason smiled again, feeling his mouth straining from making the motion so many times without the emotion to maintain it each time. "Well, I appreciate the thought anyway, Mr. Debber. But it's quite alright. Actually, I should probably be go-" 

"Wait! Hold on, what am I thinking? I can just ask the Watcher to bring some more in!" 

Mason's heart dropped at the mention of the Watcher, his anxiety reawakened in a fraction of a second. 

If there was a time for this being or whoever was looking in from the outside to be listening in, it would be _now._

It took every ounce of courage and self-determination to maintain his composure as his insides began to curdle at the thought that the Watcher was paying attention to the two of them at that very moment. 

Trying to keep his smile from looking too uneasy, he said, "It's alright! Really, you don't have to..." 

His words fell on deaf ears and he watched as the gardener stood up to his feet and looked up. 

Mason's heart dropped. 

The gardener's eyes were blank. 

Mr. Debber's usual bright brown eyes now looked glazed and a shade darker suddenly, which was weird given that they were angled in the direction of the sun. 

For a brief moment, he looked as though he was a living corpse as he stood up completely still, head arched towards the sky with a neutral expression on his face. 

Then, there was silence. 

Mason felt as though he needed to run, although if there really was someone looking in, that would be the most damning action he could take. Instead, he watched as Mr. Debber continued to stand and blink, saying nothing. Mason himself was as still as a statue, keeping his antsy movements under strict control as he waited to see a camera turn or a flash or anything to happen. 

The whole thing happened in the span of two and a half seconds, but when Mr. Debber turned to look back at Mason, he was back to normal suddenly, a bright smile plastered across his face. "Goody, goody! The Watcher's bringing in the seeds along with a brand new shovel tonight! I was in need of a new one." 

Mason blinked. 

_"...What?"_

  
"U-Um, what do you mean?" Mason asked, mentally kicking himself from his inability to hide the slight stammer. 

Mr. Debber's smile widened to a disconcerting width. "A shovel! My old one was getting a bit bent and all. It was only due time for it to give out on me." 

"I-I mean, um...when are you going to ask for the tea and shovel?" 

The old gardener tilted his head to the side in slight confusion. 

"What do you mean, doctor? I just did!" 


	4. Chapter 4

**_September 21, 1977_  
  
** Mason hurried his steps has he decided to forgo the rest of his camera search and get back into the safety of his home as quick as possible. He took care to not walk too quickly enough for it to be conspicuous, in case it would warrant suspicion, but it took more fortitude than he would have thought for someone on the verge of outright panic.   
  
_"Since...since when? I mean, excuse me if I sound rude, but I didn't see you open your mouth or anything," he asked incredulously, fighting the urge to look around to see if anyone else was watching._  
  
 _Mr. Debber looked puzzled, "Just now! You saw me."_  
  
 _"But...you didn't say anything."_  
  
 _Mr. Debber's face went from confused to worried. "Uh...Mason, you do know that we only need to connect with the Watcher for him to hear you._  
  
Him?   
  
_"I...uh, I don't suppose, I mean...did you whisper it or-"  
  
"Whisper?" Mr. Debber's mouth thinned as he neared Mason, who almost took a step back when he closed the gap, "...Doctor, you...are you alright? Are you sure you're not still sick?   
  
The sense of dread and imminent danger that had been building up in Mason's chest and stomach threatened to spill out into his demeanor, and he could feel that he was getting close to hyperventilating. "N-No, I'm...actually, _yes. _I think I might still be sick actually. I probably need to go back inside."  
  
Mr. Debber gave him a sympathetic nod. "I see...I'll be bringing in that tea then. Maybe get some with honey and a bit of cinnamon."   
  
Mason merely nodded with a wisp of a smile. "Much appreciated."   
  
Mason's Adam's apple bobbled a bit as he swallowed a lump developing in his throat. He felt that he had been too ill prepared to confront the reality of what may be going on and that he needed to go back inside to regroup. He desperately hoped that Mr. Debber hadn't garnered just how nervous he was the entire time as he felt a bit of sweat dribble down his face and arms from his anxiety.   
  
Too many things out of the ordinary were happening at once, and it was hard to maintain face when the spike of fear that had came up when he saw the abrupt and inexplicable shift in the gardener's eyes, but it would be impossible to keep it up when he felt as if there were unseen eyes that were on him so long as he was out and about.   
  
It was only a matter of time for it to become obvious to whoever this Watcher was that he had become an anomaly.   
  
That time probably measured in _seconds.   
  
_"Thank you for telling me about your flowers. I'm afraid I'm feeling a bit light headed, so I should be heading back," Mason said with a small wave.  
  
Mr. Debber reciprocated it with a wave of his own. "Alright, doctor. Take it slow and easy. If you're not too finicky, I'll bring some other kinds of tea as well. Get your rest."_   
_  
A tiny bit of relief sprouted in him as he finally felt safe to walk back to his abode, in rooms he had long combed for surveillance and behind walls where no one could see him shake._  
  
 _As he turned to leave, he overheard the gardener call out, "By the way, if you keep feeling sick, you can also ask the Watcher to bring in some medicine for you!"  
  
_ He was fortunate that there weren't many people around, so no one could see his eyes that were wide with fear as he marched towards his home.   
  
He continued to chant in his head over and over, _"keep it together, keep it together, keep it together..."_ throughout the entirety of his return home. Words that were barely keeping him from breaking out into a full sprint towards his front door.   
  
He couldn't lose his calm yet. Not when there was a chance that he was being watched.   
  
That chant allowed him to get to the front door of his house just in time before he nearly slammed the door behind him and collapsed right then and there, breaking out into a cold sweat.   
  


\----- 

**December 21, 1967  
**  
It hadn't occur that he was going to actually see his family in time for Christmas until he finished his third set of push-ups and realized how hungry he was afterwards. 

There would be turkey waiting for him after the Christmas exodus. Mashed potatoes, corn, collard greens, mac & cheese and his mother-in-law's special lemon pepper rice that he looked forward to since he had been together with Abigail. As someone who had no close family members left and was estranged from any distant relatives that he really didn't know anything about, Abby's family were more than happy to give him the warmth and closeness that he had dearly missed since the passing of his mother and grandmother, the only two people who were constant in his childhood and were no longer present to this day. They had accepted him before he had even proposed to the woman who became his wife and reminded him of what it was like to have a support system filled with love and care when he had spent those lonely years living mostly on his own. 

He had only been in basic training for almost three weeks now, but it felt much longer with streams of yelling, the constant physical discipline and exercise, and lack of familiarity with the other men who were to be his comrades. His days were strictly ordered in military routine, filled with stress and exhaustion. 

He couldn't see how he'd ever get used to this. 

His drill sergeant, Robert Burgess, a man who served in the latter half of the Korean War and had a slight burn mark on the right side of his neck, continued to rattle out numbers as he counted each push up as the the soldiers pressed themselves up and down against the ground. His voice, as stern and authoritative as any commanding officer should be, served as a background that set his body in motion like an automaton as his mind drifted to home. 

Mason had considered himself to be decently fit before he had been enlisted into the army, but he had definitely picked up more definition in the short time that he had been training. His wife would probably be somewhat shocked to see him with a bit more muscle on his arms. 

In turn, he would probably be more shocked to see how much rounder she probably was, with their child's arrival approaching with each day passed. 

And that he might not see her until much later. 

That thought caused his face to sour as he continued his push-ups. 

He might not get the chance to see his wife and newborn child after his training, depending on where they'd station him. 

Would he be sent far away, to the other side of the country where he wouldn't be able to reach them? 

Would he be sent to a different country to train, like Germany or South Korea, where he could only be reached by letter? 

Or would he end up in Vietnam where he'd might never hear from them again?

The push-ups continued, his mind occupied on the uncertainty of the future the entire time. Even after the training, he continued to worriedly ponder what would be his fate.

**\-----**   


**_  
September 21, 1977_ **

**__**Once he had gotten himself together, he jot down the information on the paper.

He had to learn to keep his calm. He couldn't be a nervous wreck whenever something unexpected happened. They'd be able to tell. He needed to quell the hysterical sensation before it came into fruition. 

Lest this so called Watcher finds out and act upon it if he hadn't known before. 

As if he was back in Nam...under the eyes of Charlie wherever he looked. 

  
Mason had already taken in two decent nuggets of information from his conversation with Mr. Debber.   
  
First of all, the probably gender of the Watcher.   
  
He recalled that the gardener had referred to the Watcher as a him, meaning that whoever that they may be would have to be a male. However, he was aware that assuming one was a male was usually a default response by most people. In his time abroad, he had learned the hard way that guerrilla warfare in his time during his deployment incorporated both men and women, young and old.   
  
The fight to survive didn't discriminate. Anyone who held a loaded gun could towards one that was deemed an enemy easily became a threat. Either way, he couldn't afford to dismiss the women inside the colony as safe, but it would allow him to keep a better eye on the men.   
  
Second of all, that such a man-made place had been accessible to the Watcher.   
  
There's honey but no bees. Most likely supplied by the Watcher. The theory that he and everyone else were inside an artificial ecosystem seemed significantly more credible than ever before. The thought actually eased him now that he took the time to think about it, as common sense would dictate that for a place like this to be constructed and for materials to be restocked would mean that there had to be an exit _somewhere_ within. Maybe a trapped door, a hidden passage underground, a pressure point in the wall.   
  
It might be guarded or there might be a trigger, but the fact that one had to exist meant that if he searched hard enough and played his cards right, he might be able to escape.   
  
There was hope.   
  
Still...   
  
Mason leaned back in his seat and dragged a hand across his face and over his mouth as he remembered the strange incident from earlier with Mr. Debber.   
  
_Those eyes  
  
_ That had to have been a trick of the light...right?   
  
For the brief moment, the gardener's eyes had looked somewhat otherworldly, losing all luster and shine in that very moment. As though he had been in a trance, which he might as well have been when he had suddenly become almost deathly still.   
  
Mason had seen his share of the thousand yard stare, and probably had the same look at one point since his time in the battlefield, naive innocence lost in his own eyes.   
  
But the look in the Mr. Debber's eyes had seemed... _off.  
  
_ And for him to announce that he had contacted the Watcher by... connecting with him?   
  
He would have liked to dismiss it as absolute lunacy, a delusion spurned by circumstance, but he couldn't explain some things through simple logic.   
  
Literally a week ago, he had been deprived of knowledge of his past, yet somehow had his medical knowledge perfectly intact. No level of amnesia should have permitted such a thing to be possible. Also, an artificial ecosystem would still need to go through different weather patterns for the plant life to continue to thrive as much as possible, let alone humans. Sure, the possibility of an underground waterway was possible, but for some of the things to stay alive all year round would need a bit more than water and sun.   
  
And then there was the fact that he couldn't even think about the Watcher without a mental block somehow obstructing his features.   
  
Mason's frown deepened.   
  
Mason had been under that same mind-spell that everyone else seemed to currently be under. Wouldn't that mean that he had probably contacted the Watcher himself at some point? Asking for amenities or spare medical supplies in the same way that Mr. Debber claimed he had? Through some mental... _psychic_ link or something?   
  
Maybe he had lost his connection somehow?   
  
Mason shook his head.   
  
This situation had really did a number on his thought processes.   
  
"Mental connections? Psychic? What the hell am I thinking?" he murmured to himself as he tipped his head down rubbed his eyes.   
  
The more he thought about it, the more preposterous it became.   
  
He didn't believe in the supernatural. Not in ghosts, demons or people having superpowers. Such things were left to fiction. He didn't believe in things from star-reading children enjoyed during their pastimes in the night to the existence of God, having lost faith in any existence of a benevolent higher being after witnessing and experiencing the horrors of war firsthand and his prayers falling of deaf ears.   
  
No, there had to be some possible way to explain such a thing.   
  
He steeled himself and decided to focus on the matter at hand.   
  
Tonight, he had an opportunity, one that he never thought would be so readily available so soon.   
  
If what Mr. Debber was going to receive chamomile and a new shovel tonight, then that would mean that either someone from the outside the compound would have to come and leave, entering inside through some sort of opening or that, in the probability that someone from within was an insider, someone would have revealed their association with whoever may be responsible for their entrapment.   
  
That brought upon his new objective, one that would be harrowing if anything were to go wrong.   
  
He'd have to remain attentive and catch a glimpse of whoever would enter this enclosure.   
  
A terrifying venture that would require him to possibly go out the safety of his home at night.   
  
Mason didn't think he'd be ready.   
  
He had barely managed to keep his composure during a casual conversation with another neighbor in the fear that there were ears listening in. That Mr. Debber himself may have been observing his behavior.   
  
But now, he was possibly putting himself in the direct line of fire in trying to find the identity of who most likely had to be his or at least one of his captors.   
  
He sat in his chair in thought, looking at his options.   
  
After several minutes of deliberation, he made up his mind.   
  
If he did nothing, who knew when he'd get the opportunity like this again? For all he knew, if they were growing more suspicious of him at that very moment, this might be his only opportunity for escape.   
  
He'd be stuck in the routine of pretending that he was a marionette, under the watchful gazes of whatever sick-minded individuals were looking in from the outside.   
  
Or maybe placed back under whatever mental hold he'd been under.   
  
He needed to take the opportunity to at least see who or what he may be up against. He couldn't afford to keep dallying.   
  
After all, his wife and child were waiting on him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This story contains strong language, graphic violence, themes of PTSD, racism and war, and mentions of drug abuse. This story will be hit with a Mature rating. Discretion is advised. 
> 
> Before going into this story there are two things you should know: 
> 
> 1\. The Child's Play story was meant to scare. This story is meant to hurt. As I stated earlier either in a journal or in a status update, I take it up a notch in this story. As within the description, this is an experimental horror story thus I can't guarantee how well I pull it off, but I'm going to try my best to make my readers lose sleep any way I can! Because I love you all, and think you deserve the best I can whip out! :heart: 
> 
> But as forewarning, this story delves into darker territory, even by my usual standards (as this is an experiment). I'd probably recommend not to take the warning lightly. 
> 
> 2\. In the journal, I originally said this might be a short story. While it most definitely will be shorter than any other story aside from the first installment of the MB series, Child's Play, given how long the prologue wound up, there is a chance that the original 4-part story that I tended this to be may wound up being a 8 or 10-part story instead. I guess there was no way I was going to have this finished by Halloween of this year after all. Which is just as well since I can go at my own pace and add themes typically outside of the Halloween spirit. So, all for the better. Now I can think of the Child's Play story as an introduction to the series while later stories such as this can become the real meat of the it. 
> 
> Now, aside from that relative trivia and warning, give it a read, tell me how you feel about it, and remember that comments/criticisms/critiques are always appreciated!


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